


Please Stay Awhile

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Human AU, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Religion, Slow Burn, its slow burn but not too slow you feel me, lgbt history, these losers are just gay disasters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-12-27 03:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “We'll go walking in the moonlightWalking in the moonlightLaughter ringing in the darknessPeople drinking for days gone byTime don't mean a thingWhen you're by my sidePlease stay awhile”Ezra Fell prides himself in his work, his bookshop, and being a helping hand for the Soho area. Anthony J. Crowley prides himself in his car, his chic flower shop, and his style. Both have gone through the years content with their lot in life but always feeling left out of that thrill of companionship and of falling in love.That is, until they meet.





	1. I. There's A Line Between Love & Fascination

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is my first foray back into fanfiction in a very long time, possibly around 4 years now? To say the Good Omens bug has bit me is an understatement so here I am! I have read both the book and watched the show.
> 
> This story I am planning on keeping fairly light and fluffy, not too much angst, but I will make sure to mention and warn about certain subjects or themes at the beginning of chapters (there will be mentions of internalized homophobia, etc). Also, if there is something I miss warning about that you think I should mention, feel free to let me know in the comments! 
> 
> I will likely keep the rating at M, so keep in mind for future chapters, but I doubt it will need to be raised to Explicit as there will be nothing too explicit or detailed. I will give fair warning as well when the M rating is apparent in chapters.
> 
> Updates will be irregular unfortunately as I’m currently in school. I also am unsure how long this will turn out to be.
> 
> This first chapter is a bit short but the others should be longer.
> 
> Title and summary quote is from "You and I" by Queen, which is a mild inspiration for this fic!
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from: My Foolish Heart by Victor Young and Ned Washington (1949)

Books were intriguing. 

Ezra had read a fair share of them in his life, more than most. He loved the feeling of the binding creaking as he carefully opened a first edition to take in the yellowed quality of aged paper and vellum. He loved new books too, the newly acquired and never opened, the front of the hardcover glossy and untouched. He loved little paperbacks perfect to be slipped in a carry on or purse. All of these features were intriguing even before delving into a book's contents, the words and thoughts and fears of an author poured out onto a page through 26 letters. He found a love for all genres and serials, even ones that he would staunchly deny ever sampling from. It wouldn't take much of a wild guess to conclude he was a bookworm and owned a bookshop; in fact, he was nearing his twelfth year of ownership within the next few months.

Books were intriguing, at least according to Ezra. That very statement swirled through his mind as the letters he concentrated on blurred away. They didn’t want him to read them; they wanted his eyes to drift back up over the binding and dog-eared paper. The tea next to him sat untouched and possibly lukewarm since the ten minutes he had ordered it. 

So, a quick revision then. The book in his hands was not intriguing. It was what was over the book that was quite intriguing and it made the knot in his throat grow.

Ezra wasn’t sure what it was that had initially caught his attention. His first sweep of the café was probably the culprit for this drawn feeling, though it has been a week since he first stepped inside, so he couldn’t quite remember why his gaze locked onto this particular intrigue. Usually his memory was spotless, a blessing and a curse. Yet, the reason why he was feeling so_ intrigued _, his new favorite word at that point in time, was a mystery in itself. Not that it mattered much anymore up to that point. It was merely a starting plot to multiple reactions.

_ Get it together_, he scolded himself, staring intently at a word in the book. And stared. And still it wouldn’t process in his mind. 

Ezra gently closed the book shut, careful to mind the old and brittle binding. He would need to touch it up later tonight along with a good segment of his other books. A tedious process that would require a good deal of his attention but hopefully would eat up a good portion of his evening. At least it meant an excuse to close up the shop early for a few hours, even if he felt a bit guilty doing so.

He took a timid sip of his tea then added a bit more milk. By this point he couldn't bring himself to correct the young barista on his order and it wasn't too much trouble to fix the tea himself. However, it didn't mean he had to like the initial taste of too strong tea either to bear through it.

He liked his spot. He sat by the window, glass fogged and rain streaked, a steady downpour hitting the tops of cars and umbrellas outside. His own umbrella leaned against a table leg and left a small puddle on the floor beside his wingtip shoes. His hair was damp, just waiting to dry a bit more and become unruly. He attempted to flatten it down and ran his hands through it to try to keep it as orderly as possible. The initial downpour had caught him unawares on his walk over and he had fumbled a minute or so to open his umbrella. Thankfully his book went unscathed but he had a good amount of wet hair and shoulders to prove for it.

The café was fairly quaint and indie, family-run and student-employed. Plants dotted the interior and it had a homey feel to it aided by the trickle of soft music over the speakers. The establishment had a considerably large array of pastries, scones, and beverages available on the menu. Ezra wondered if they had a deal with the bakery and patisserie not a few blocks down the street for hand-made bread and buttercream. The few samples he had tried and ordered were delicious and well-crafted.

A newspaper next to his book lay untouched. It had been there when he arrived, left by the last occupant. Likely a businessman in a rush, Ezra mused. He reached across and unfolded it, making sure not to make much noise with the crinkling newsprint, and skimmed over the headlines. It was mostly local news and gossip columns, nothing particularly global or worldwide to inform him on any recent events. A few advertisements for lost property dotted the pages and he pointedly ignored the short list of obituaries on the third page. Best not to sour his mood so early in the day.

Eventually, his eyes shifted over the paper, his back rigid in his chair. Ezra didn't consider himself much of a people watcher. He usually kept to himself and minded not to draw too much attention unless spoken to. He liked to simply "be" rather than "be a part of,'' so to speak. And in his mind, this translated into minding his own business and minding that of others. 

So why now, as he sat in this café, did he find his eyes glancing around at the other customers and the waitstaff? And why did they keep drifting back to that table?

In some part he almost felt rebellious. A feeling would settle in his gut every morning this past week when he would open the door with a jingle of the bell. A rush of excitement would fill his chest as he would settle in his seat and glance about the establishment. This wasn’t anything nearly as exciting as one of his spy or romance novels but the feeling flooding his lungs and gut certainly felt similar. He would then simply observe and embrace the feeling of newness, trying to ignore how out of practice he was at all of this.

There, only a few strides away at a two-person table, was the person of interest. His hair was dark but revealed itself to be a russet color in the right lighting, turning a deep red that attracted one's gaze. He wore dark, well-tailored clothing that accentuated his lithe silhouette and slouched posture. He lounged on the chair like a piece of fine drapery, one arm slung over the back of the chair, the rest of his body sliding forward in a seemingly unnatural position, legs spread wide to accommodate. He had a nice slope to his lean shoulders emphasized by light padding in his jacket. Ezra's gaze caught onto his shoes: black and finely polished and shiny. He could see the hint of cherry red for the shoe bottom from the way the man slightly angled his foot. He couldn't be much younger than him by the lines of his face and the manner of dress, likely early forties.

He certainly caught many eyes of the staff and passing customers though Ezra didn’t know what color _ his _eyes were. They had never locked gazes for him to know but he fancied they must be a rich color. Perhaps warm like chocolate, or a deep multicolored hazel not unlike his own, or perhaps so blue they looked like the heavens. However, he doubted he would be able to find out. The man wore sunglasses indoors, the dark lenses obscuring much of his face, including his eyes. 

To Ezra, this man was intriguing. 

Intrigue in itself denoted mystery and interest, an apt description of the man seated at that table.

The first time he had seen him a week ago was on this similar Tuesday. It too had been raining but only a slight drizzle. Forced to find shelter, Ezra had decided he preferred a change of scenery anyway. He had wandered the opposite direction he usually traveled for breakfast in the morning, mostly out of a whim than the weather forecast. He had stumbled into this small café for its warm, dry atmosphere. He had sat at this very table, had ordered the same thing, and had noticed the same man. He sat the same way every time, slouched in his seat in an almost formal yet informal manner, his body leaned on an angle where Ezra saw more of his ear than his face. He acted as if he knew Ezra was watching… and didn’t. 

He knew he was being ridiculous. So the man was intriguing and handsome? Ezra had seen handsome men before in pubs and parks and museums, kissed and dated a good number of them as well. But there was something about the man that he couldn't quite wrap his head around, something that kept drawing his gaze a week later. It wasn't necessarily the sunglasses, though he had to admit they were a curiosity all on their own.

Just go up and greet him, he would tell himself. Ask him his name, start up a conversation, and learn about him. But what next? Ask him to dinner maybe? Or perhaps meet at a pub later tonight? Or would they become drawn in deep conversation over a shared love of Wilde and other LGBTQ authors?

The man didn't seem the reading sort. He came with nothing but a satchel hanging from his chair and only ever took out his phone and wallet. Most of his attention as he drank his beverage was glued to his sleek mobile in one hand, other hand occupied by his drink or idly drumming his fingers.

When not perusing websites or simply staring into space, the man would glance occasionally at his phone for an alert of a new message. Ezra watched with utmost interest. He wondered who he was texting. Were they family or friends, or merely a colleague at a workplace asking for advice? Quite possibly a lover? The list went on and on. Each question he thought up wanted to spill from his lips like a waterfall. So he kept his lips pressed firmly shut and took another sip of his drink.

He caught a waitress's attention as she passed and ordered a macaron. He had resigned himself to be unable to continue reading so he might as well focus on eating something instead. The fact he had not tried the macarons here yet was simply an extra indulgence.

Time passed fairly leisurely after his order arrived. The biscuit was fluffy and the cream filling was smooth and sweet. He savored the macaron for a bit, managing now only a few brief glances towards the intriguing man, but pointedly directed most of his gaze to the window to his left. He allowed himself to relax. He filtered out the soft patter of rain against the glass and the soft chatter of the café to his right.

This was meant to be relaxing after all. A nice start to his mornings before opening shop and dealing with customers, tourists, and students. He needed to stop working himself up over this mysterious man. Let the man slip into a simple detail of his new routine.

By the time Ezra finished his tea and pastry, the clock neared ten. He took his time packing up his things and shrugging on his damp coat. He decided to stick the newspaper under his arm for some light reading later. Positive that everything was in its place, Ezra draped his bag over his shoulder, slightly unfurled his umbrella, and briefly glanced over to a certain table. The man still sat there, now once again engaged with his phone, unoccupied fingers tapping a beat on the table. Ezra shook his head and hunched down a bit for the incoming rain as he exited the café, unaware of the pair of eyes that watched him leave.

Tomorrow, tomorrow he would say something.


	2. II. Excuse Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning: brief mention of the AIDs crisis but it’s merely alluded to. Just a heads up so you are aware.

Wednesday morning was brisk and cold but blessedly dry for the moment. Vapor escaped past Ezra’s lips in clouds of mist as he stood outside the café. His legs felt stiff. He stamped his legs to wake them up and move the muscles a bit.

He had stayed up far too late last night. Repairing his books had taken far longer than he had anticipated and the hours had melted away by the assistance of his radio softly playing music. He had been hunched over at his desk for a couple hours too many and his back and hips were paying for it this morning. But Ezra was happy to say he had done a rather fine job sprucing up the binding and covers of some of his treasured and older copies, so he considered it a net positive.

Ezra deeply wished he could make a living not selling his books. He wouldn't go so far as to say he loved and cherished every book in his shop but in his mind he valued them all the same, mostly in terms of sentimentality. Unfortunately, sentimental value didn’t pay the electric bill.

He had first worked at the shop after graduating from university in the summer of 1991, a Bachelor of Arts in English and Religious Studies under his belt with nowhere to really use it in London. Mr. Williams was the owner and proprietor, a nice old man whose family had acquired the wide plethora and rarity of his collection through the generational exchange of the shop from one family member to the other since its opening in the early 19th century. He occasionally went to auctions and rare book conventions throughout Europe and needed a trusted hand to operate and look after the shop during his absences as well as tidy the place during and after work hours.

He had no children and had confessed one summer night a few months after Ezra had started working that he was a homosexual. His partner had passed only a few months prior, like so many others, hence the need for some additional help. It was a hectic and downright frightening period at that time and Ezra couldn't begin to imagine the older man's grief. Ezra hadn't yet made any friends in the area, most of his university friends still back in Wales, and in hindsight that might have been a good thing.

They had shared mutual secrets among looming stacks and bookcases on the shop floor. They became close friends soon after that.

Ezra was still surprised when, upon the older gentleman's peaceful passing 12 years ago, he found he had been entrusted the deed of the shop and the unoccupied upper floors in the man’s will. He hadn’t had the heart in him to sell off the shop—it was a historic building and he feared new land contractors might tear the place down to open a nightclub or something like it in its place.

So, Ezra became the new proprietor of the bookshop. He kept the shop much the same as he dared not make too many drastic changes. He liked the clutter of the shop and the unorganized yet organized manner of the shelves of books and knickknacks lying about. He moved into the upstairs floor, converting it into a small but comfortable flat. He didn't mind the size as he spent most of his time in the backroom of the shop anyway. The only thing he changed was the name, the shop newly christened "E.Z. Fell and Co.", the added “and Co.” a subtle reminder that made him smile.

Ezra left the shop at his usual early hour, glad that the rain had finally let up if just for a bit. He decided to bring his umbrella just in case. He wrapped his tartan scarf more closely around his neck as he began his walk once the cool air caught up to him.

The walk to the café was brief, only a bit of a longer commute compared to his old route. He was still a bit more unfamiliar of this side of the area even though by this point he knew Soho like the back of his hand. The café happened to be much closer to Mayfair compared to Ezra’s bookshop.

He walked in once he was sure he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by tripping over his own sleep-laden feet. He kept his gaze ahead and walked straight towards his usual spot. Once he reached his seat, he allowed himself to glance over. And deeply regretted it.

The man had changed seats. He still sat at the same table, still dressed in dark designer clothes and had his phone in hand, still had a large coffee waiting near his right. But whereas before Ezra could merely admire the line of the man's back and left side from the angle of his table, the man had seated himself in the opposite chair. Now Ezra could see the man's dark grey v-neck beneath his blazer and the long line of his neck. 

He could see his face much better now too. He had an angular and lean face, clean-shaven and mildly freckled. His thin lips seemed to be perpetually pursed, teetering on the edge of dipping down in displeasure or curling into a sly smile. He still wore sunglasses. Their opacity did a fine job at obscuring any hint of the man's eyes underneath. Prescription lenses then?

Ezra had to admit he was rather attractive.

Just as soon as Ezra noted the man's new position and facial features, he darted his eyes down to the floor. Does he know? he wondered, feeling slightly panicked. He thought he had been doing his… well, _ staring _quite subtly. But if that was the case and the intriguing man knew he was at least mildly interested in him, why switch seats where Ezra could see him more clearly? Why not change to a different table? There were plenty of free ones near the back by the cashier and baristas.

Ezra took a bit more time than necessary to unwind his scarf and shrug out of his overcoat. This wouldn’t do, the man would surely see him staring now. He chanced another glance over as he settled his coat on the back of his chair. The man had his mobile out in his hand and the tilt of his head certainly indicated he was staring at the screen but Ezra couldn’t tell where the man’s gaze truly lay behind those sunglasses. He could be watching him as well for all he knew.

Ridiculous.

He took the time of walking up to the cashier and placing his order to think things over. Did the man want a change of scenery, opting to switch seats as a change of pace? Maybe he was waiting for someone to come join him, a date or fellow colleague? Well, Ezra had only ever seen him here alone and never saw him order. He was always seated at the same table when Ezra arrived and still sitting there when he left. And he didn’t seem the type to bring a date to a little café in the early hours of the morning. A nice club or fancy restaurant in the evening seemed more up the man’s alley.

Speaking of, when was the last time Ezra had gone out to a fancy restaurant?

_ Stop_. He quickly shut down that train of thought that simple question would lead to. He would rather not imagine the other man taking him out to dinner, sampling expensive wines together, and sharing glances in a dimly lit romantic setting. He didn’t even know the man’s name!

“Ezra.”

He jumped a bit at his name. In front of him one of the baristas held out his order. He could tell the tea still didn’t have enough milk but he smiled warmly and thanked her anyway before walking back over to his seat.

_ Steady now, old boy. _

He kept his gaze firmly forward towards the door or to his tea as he mixed in some more milk. An interesting variety of people walked through the café’s door as he watched on. A good amount appeared to be students or business people rushing in for a daily dosage of caffeine before starting the morning. They darted in and out after retrieving their orders with considerable speed. Others slowly filled in the tables, the noise level increasing mildly as partners chatted or independent writers tapped harshly on their laptops. He found he recognized a few other regulars besides the intriguing man that seemed to settle in their usual places. Ezra wondered mildly if they began to consider him a regular as well.

It would be extremely suspicious if he abruptly stopped coming but if the man decided he liked his new seating arrangement better Ezra might not have much of a choice. He would be paranoid the entire time as he felt now, all rebelliousness replaced with a bit of embarrassment. Who was he kidding, thinking he could go about his mornings idly watching a stranger without getting caught? The man would have turned and seen him staring sooner or later, likely would have stopped coming altogether because of it.

This wasn’t how he usually did these kinds of things… these kinds of things being relationships, both platonic or romantic. Ezra was a fairly charismatic and friendly person, most of this being attributed to his religious upbringing. Though he had fallen out of organized religion long ago, he found the messages soothing at the very least. Therefore, he went about life with a fairly open and loving outlook. 

He was open to talking and chatting given the right mood and circumstances. He had done it often enough when he was younger. Pubs were great places to meet people and talk to strangers. A great place as well to find a like-minded individual to take home for the night.

But he was older now, a shop owner, and a respected member of the community. He was an open door for the local LGBTQ youth and an open place for discussion should any of them be so inclined. But he hadn’t dated in years and hadn’t the time nor the confidence to go to as many pubs as he used to in his university days either. At this point, Ezra accepted the fact he was out of his element.

He accepted even more so that pining for a random stranger in a little café was uncharacteristic of him.

Ezra finished his tea a bit quicker than usual. He still had the newspaper in his bag from yesterday but his mind was too preoccupied for him to pay much attention to any of the articles. He might as well open up the shop early for once and close early to tidy up his finances with some wine in the late afternoon. It would help ease his mind punching numbers and tallying purchases and some wine would be a welcome aid.

Mind set to it, he rose from his seat and prepared to leave hastily. Rain had begun to fall again outside by that time and hopefully if he moved fast enough he could make it back before it really started to come down. Bag in hand, he had gotten close enough to the door to press a hand against the handle when a voice and the touch of a hand on his elbow stopped him.

“Your wallet.”

Ezra glanced over his shoulder and did indeed see his wallet between two fingers. “Oh, thank you, I must have—” he began, gaze drifting from his wallet to the other person.

His throat immediately seized up, cutting off his gratitude. He had expected it to be one of the staff that had stopped him. Instead, rather than a pair of eyes, his gaze locked onto opaque lenses that stared back at him. His own startled face faintly reflected back at him mockingly.

Ezra expected the man to give him a pretentious sneer or a suave smile. He certainly didn’t expect the uneasy and lopsided smirk that curved the man's lips when their gazes caught.

“Left it on your table,” he explained, waving the wallet for emphasis, then held it towards him. “No need to thank me.”

“Well then…” Ezra swallowed down the ‘Thank you’ that built up in his throat, “I am grateful, in any case.” He reached out and slipped his wallet from the other man’s fingers, depositing it back into his pocket. When he glanced back up, the man was still there, still looking at him.

Suddenly, the man shifted, and held out his hand. “Crowley.”

If Ezra hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, he would have been elated. A name! A surname, of course, but a name all the same. However, his thoughts barely had time to catch up with what was occurring, so instead he reached out his hand as well with an easy smile.

“Ezra,” he said, shaking the man’s—_Crowley’s_—hand.

Their palms touched for a moment longer than was appropriate. Or maybe that was Ezra’s mind ascribing the simple action more nuance or meaning than it really had. But he noticed, in some small part, and took notice as well the warm touch of Crowley’s slender hand.

It was a nice hand.

Crowley disengaged contact first, slipping his hand into his jean pocket. Ezra pointedly kept his gaze above his torso, fighting the urge to follow the movement of his hand and take a quick glance at the other’s long legs. They were certainly long and slim; he was all legs really, though they were both around the same height.

Whereas Ezra made certain to keep his gaze fixed on Crowley’s face, he couldn’t help feeling that the other had just given him a once over, but of course he couldn’t exactly tell. He could only notice the small quirk of the corner of Crowley’s lip and the shift of his weight from one foot to the other. Ezra knew the body language, the tells. He had dated in the 80s and 90s after all.

Ezra decided then it wouldn't hurt to look. 

Crowley looked much closer to his age close up. Laugh lines cleaved into his cheeks as he smiled and his nose wrinkled with permanent lines. He dressed younger than his age and his physique was lean. Ezra himself had a more ageless look to his face even if the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were becoming more prominent over time. His manner of dress more than made up for the seemingly youthful quality to his face. He always sported tartan, tweed, corduroy, and soft wool suits, jumpers, and button-ups. He liked to dress nice and he much preferred the style and fit of older suits compared to the modern cut Crowley seemed to prefer. 

His eyes settled back onto the lenses of Crowley's sunglasses. There was a warm feeling suffusing through his arms and legs alongside a tingling feeling in his chest. It made him fidget, the hand holding his bag reaching over to allow him to twist the ring on his pinky to do something with his hands.

This was… new.

“I must be going then,” Ezra said. He let his hands fall apart and adjusted his grip on his bag. Perhaps he wouldn’t even open the shop today, instead devote the entire afternoon to his finances, tidying the shop, _ and _a wine glass or two. Lord only knows he felt the intense need for it now.

Crowley shifted his weight again and Ezra noticed his satchel slung across his chest. “M’heading out as well.”

Oh. Convenient. 

Too convenient? 

Best not to question that now.

Ezra moved to open the door. Immediately, a gust of wind blew in through the doorway along with the heavy downpour that had begun to fall at a vicious angle. The darkening sidewalk had begun to fill with puddles and people rushed by with hoods drawn up or newspapers held over heads. The rain must have just started to pick up when they were talking.

“Oh dear.” Ezra took his umbrella out of his bag and glanced over to Crowley. The man still stood there in a blazer, no jacket or sign of an umbrella anywhere on his person. That wouldn’t do. “Where are you heading?”

Crowley’s head turned to look at him. “What?” 

“I live only a few blocks from here, I could share my umbrella with you, if you like,” he explained, shifting on his feet.

The other grunted. “Don’t bother. Look, you don’t owe me for—”

Ezra raised his hand and cut him off. “It’s really no trouble and I’m not doing this so we’re even. Your clothes look as if a good soak would not do them any good.” Rolling his shoulders, he offered out to him his umbrella. “Actually, I don’t have far to walk. Take it.”

“I’m not—”

“My dear, will you stop arguing and take the umbrella.”

Huffing in frustration, Crowley relented and grabbed the handle. “_Fine_,” he hissed.

If Ezra had been able to see Crowley’s eyes in that moment, he would have seen the most open and honest gaze ever laid before him. He would have seen the facade of Crowley's obstinacy by the tight line of his lips that conflicted with the look in his eyes. Ezra would have seen the rush of affection the simple gesture of the offer of his umbrella had brought along with the slip of the endearment. He might have even been able to see the way Crowley blinked several times to clamp down on a strange emotion threatening to break through his skin as his heart raced in his chest.

If he had seen his eyes, Ezra might have stared back in mutual bewilderment.

Instead, he saw only black, opaque lenses.

Ezra barely kept a smug smile from appearing on his face. Just barely. “After you,” he insisted with a sweep of his arm out the door.

A charming smirk settled back on Crowley’s face despite his losing attempt to remain stubborn. Crowley walked past through the open door and Ezra followed close behind. He kept the door open for another person who shouldered past them to get out of the rain.

He turned back to Crowley after letting the door close shut as they sheltered beneath the café’s awning. He noticed that Crowley was watching him again or at least his sunglasses were. He would need to get used to that. 

Looking down, Crowley unfurled the umbrella, and held it aloft. The white canopy and light oak handle looked out of place compared to the rest of his outfit but it would do its job and keep the man and his clothes relatively dry. 

“Mind how you go,” Ezra told him, raising his voice a bit to be heard over the heavy fall of rain against the metal awning.

Crowley gave him a brief nod, a quick “Right,” then headed the opposite direction of Ezra’s bookshop. He must live in Mayfair then. Certainly explained the clothes.

Ezra watched him go for a moment, taking note of Crowley’s unusual gait and the swing of his hips. He _ sauntered _ and _strolled _with the way he moved, weaving through an oncoming crowd rushing down the sidewalk. 

The warmth in Ezra’s chest was hard to ignore now. His breath caught in his throat with each inhale. It was an indescribable feeling as most feelings were. Indescribable... but not unwelcome.

When Crowley and the white canopy of Ezra’s umbrella disappeared out of view, the blissful bubble of rapt attention Ezra had found himself in popped and he stepped back with a start.

Rain continued to fall heavily as the oncoming storm continued. Ezra wrapped his coat more closely around himself and turned up the collar to help shield his neck and lower face. If he moved fast enough and popped into a few shops along the way he would hopefully make it back to the shop not completely drenched.

And he really needed a drink. Perhaps he would pop open the bottle from 1919 Mr. Williams had left for him in the wine rack.


	3. III. Person of Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fast and dangerous driving; this can be considered suicidal ideation/behavior but Crowley is not doing it with the objective or intent of harming himself. Either way, I felt a little warning wouldn't hurt.
> 
> Here is some insight on Crowley and his POV!
> 
> This and the next chapter were originally one massive beast of a chapter that I had to split because of the size. Therefore, I'm uploading this and "Foreseen Events" at the same time since I find they make the most sense read one after the other!
> 
> This chapter and the next should be the end of most of the set up and the following chapter after we finally get some headway!

The immediate impression one might come to when seeing Crowley for the first time was, more often than one might think, that he was a spy. 

It was hardly a wild guess. Take for example this scenario: a handsome older man saunters into your place of business, never removes his sunglasses, and sits by himself at a table for a good two hours, looking at his phone, before leaving and returning the next day at the same time. You might consider the odd occurrence just that: an odd occurrence. But you also might consider, in that part of your mind that searches for thrill and excitement in a relatively mundane life, that the man is secretly texting MI6 on a burner phone about a rogue Russian agent loose somewhere in the city. You might fancy he'll be part of a high speed chase that will be covered up and hushed up later in the afternoon in that vintage car he parks a couple streets away.

Crowley himself used to dream of being a spy. Ian Fleming’s books lined a shelf in his main office, one of which was a signed copy he particularly cherished. He loved James Bond, watched all of the movies and read all of the novels as a young adult, knew the iconic lines by heart, and had a solid ranking of his favorite Bonds that might garner an incendiary reaction in a few dedicated online forums. He had the old, expensive car, the designer look, the suave charm, and bullet holes on his car window (well, they were decals he bought at a petrol station some ten odd years ago but no one needed to know that).

As was now obvious, unfortunately, Crowley was not a spy. In fact, his life was hardly that exciting.

For one, he imagined that any attempt at a roundhouse kick would likely result in his hip getting dislocated and a return to physical therapy for a couple weeks. His eyesight was shit so his aim with a gun would probably be atrocious. And his anxiety and general inability at charm meant he could only ever be considered “smooth” after a couple shots.

At least he had the aesthetic.

No, if he truly was a spy, he doubted any spy worth a damn would choose the cover story of a disabled flower shop owner. The cynical part of his brain would never consider it an interesting cover story despite it all.

At the moment, he was speeding down the streets of London, cursing under his breath as he checked his watch. The bassline of Queen’s _ Another One Bites The Dust _ rattled his windshield and teeth, shaking the entire car. He cranked the volume up a bit higher until the bass beat like a second heart in his chest. The music worked to drown out the constant stream of curses spilling from his lips.

He had sat in that damn café for an extra half hour than usual with that blasted umbrella waiting for the man to walk in. A whole half hour! He had talked himself out of looking at his phone the entire time, having already convinced himself he would be the one to initiate the exchange. He had tried to reason with himself that the man might have been running late due to a whole host of excuses: traffic, personal problems, work, family matters, murder, _ yadda, yadda._..

After the first ten minutes went by with no sign of the man, Crowley had already exhausted a slowly worsening list of possible reasons for the man’s tardiness. He had been perfectly punctual for a full week up to today. Crowley would bet a good deal of money that the man had never once been late in his life if he could help it, one hour early even if he could. The only time Crowley was ever punctual was for his stops at the café in the morning and… nowhere else. He tried not to think about that too much. It led to too many embarrassing truths.

The even worse part of the situation was that he just _ knew _ the waitstaff knew why he was waiting there with a white classic umbrella that did not go with his outfit. The curious stares had only made his anxiety worsen and shorten his thin temper. He hadn't even ordered his usual coffee. He had planned on a quick exchange of pleasantries and the umbrella before hightailing it like a bat out of Hell afterwards. Of course when Crowley had a solid plan at the ready something always came up, leaving his initial strategy utterly useless. He became quite good at thinking on the spot countless plans that went through the alphabet all the way to names like Plan ADF.

All of these factors culminated into Crowley speeding 20 miles over the legal speed limit down to his shop that was ten minutes past its time of opening with the umbrella in the back seat of his car and him muttering a steady stream of curses and blasphemies. He drove fast and recklessly but he was never really prone to road rage until this moment. Though he narrowly skipped out on hitting multiple pedestrians, accruing an exorbitant amount of parking tickets, and scratching the paint on his car, Crowley would never dare get in an accident.

He considered the Bentley his child despite the lack of shared familial blood and, well, the fact that the Bentley was a car. Crowley had restored the beauty himself after countless hours and thousands of dollars flooded into the years long project. He had dreamed of owning a 1926 model Bentley after first seeing one in an old “Cars” magazine that went bankrupt in the late 90s. When he had had a chance at getting a 1933 model, even one as banged up and missing parts as it had been, he hadn’t refused.

The Bentley became the pride of his very short list of personal accomplishments.

When he did make it to his usual parking spot outside his shop, he nearly launched himself out of the Bentley and jogged up to the front door. He wrestled with his key ring for a few moments but finally got the door unlocked and slipped inside. He flickered on the lights as he went, making a beeline towards the back counter and stockroom.

The shop was teeming with the most verdant plants and flowers in all of London. Arranged in an assortment of pots, baskets, containers, and dishes, his plants filled nearly all the available space of the shop floor and walls. However, this was not a thoughtless clutter of plants. Crowley's plants were organized in a system of his own devising for the specific purpose of growing and raising each plant in its best environment. On further inspection anyone would find that the seemingly verdant chaos revealed itself to be meticulously organized.

Flowers, cacti, succulents, and smaller sized plants were situated near the front by the shop windows to attract the gaze of passersby with their bright colors. The larger and more standard but still beautiful types such as ferns and the typical houseplant filled the space near the back counter and along the walls of the shop. He kept herbs near the back as well. 

The ceiling opened up with glass panels that allowed pure sunlight to fall down on specific segments for the plants that required a considerable amount of light. It was a neat feature made possible due to the fact that the shop was a single-story building, a rarity for an area of multi-storied townhouses and buildings. It had a flat rooftop with a few more plants in planters situated there made accessible by a steel ladder at the back of the building.

Aside from the plants, the shop itself was chic and modern. The subdued color palette made the color of the greenery pop and everything from the flooring, decorations, lights, and control system were clean, up-to-date, and well-maintained. The bright sunlight constantly streaming through made the glossy white walls nearly blinding.

The wide variety of plants both common and exotic made the name of the shop, “From Eden”, rather fitting,

The shop was a plant’s paradise… At least, based on appearance.

“Shit, shit, _ shit. _”

Crowley shouldered his way through the back door into the stockroom. He took off his jacket, dumping it haphazardly on a workbench while rolling up his sleeves. He snatched a work apron off a hook on the wall and fumbled over a panel to change the climate control system and adjust the overall temperature of the shop.

Apron secured, Crowley grabbed his plant mister and watering can before heading back out into the shop. He fixed an intense glare on the plants as he approached them. An imperceptible shiver ran down their leaves and stems.

"Of course he didn't show," Crowley grumbled to himself, turning his ire to a lovely potted fern near the wall. "Probably already has another umbrella at his place in case of emergencies. Why bother having it returned?" He sprayed a fresh mist over the fern's leaves. "Plenty of cafés in Soho he could go to instead to enjoy his morning tea in peace…"

Certain the fern had received a good shakedown, he moved to a creeping fig. He inspected the plant with precise scrutiny, rubbing the leaves between his fingers, and checking the soil. 

Crowley's scowl deepened. He went along his plants as he ranted, misting and watering ones missed by the automatic watering system. It did a fine job but Crowley found venting and watering his own plants a… healthier coping mechanism than anything else he could come up with. Plus, it looked like his yelling paid off. He swore the plants always looked a bit greener after he yelled at them.

Over time, however, Crowley’s words changed direction from cursing and denouncing the man to underlain with soft fondness.

A picture of Ezra came unbidden to his mind. Crowley remembered when he first saw him seated by that window. Morning-soft light had shone through the windowpane and streamed through the man’s white-blond hair. Wisps of hair curled around his ears and along his cheekbones, sticking out in all directions elsewhere. He had sat upright in his chair but there hadn’t been a rigidity to it but a calm confidence. He had still slumped in his seat a bit as he cradled a softbound book between two firm hands, head bowed forward, eyes captivated on the pages he held. He had worn creams and soft pastels with hints of tartan. Where the man’s pant leg had drawn up slightly Crowley had spotted long tartan socks and had noted the perfectly done tartan bow tie at the man’s collar. 

Not to mention he had looked gay. By this point Crowley knew he should have a skillfully honed eye for that sort of thing. If the man miraculously turned out to be genuinely heterosexual Crowley would have been tempted to reconsider his life choices.

The man was the prime picture of comfort and Crowley couldn’t get him out of his head.

Crowley had known the other man had been eyeing him; he hadn’t been exactly subtle about it. Crowley had noticed the first morning the stranger had walked in through the door. With his sunglasses Crowley could easily people watch when he pleased though he rarely did. It was by chance he had been so bored out of his mind that morning it was the one thing he could do to entertain himself. Head tilted down to his phone but eyes alert to his surroundings, Crowley had watched the unfamiliar man stumble through the door. He had looked unsure and clearly new to the establishment as his eyes swept across the numerous tables. 

It had been at that moment the man had locked onto Crowley and visibly stiffened. At first Crowley had believed it to be a sign of recognition that crossed the man’s face but Crowley knew he had never seen him before in his life. He had a unique look about him Crowley swore he would remember if they ever crossed paths before. No, what he had at first mistaken to be recognition turned out to be interest.

The man had immediately swept his gaze away to avoid being caught staring but Crowley hadn't missed the small double take as the man moved forward finally out of the entranceway. He had made his way to a two-person window table as Crowley watched out of the corner of his eye when the man had passed by on his left. He had dragged his thumb along his phone screen to keep up the charade. The man had cleared his throat softly--likely a nervous tick--once at his table, set his bag down beside his chair, and seated himself.

From the angle at which their tables had been, Crowley was unable to see him unless he tilted his head rather obviously. Despite that, he could tell the man was watching him, sneaking subtle glances over every now and then. He also had taken note how the man had continued to come back in the morning and sat at the same table. He always noticed the brief moment of that look always crossing over his soft face when he saw Crowley when he entered.

Crowley was used to attention. Dressed like he was and driving the type of car that he did, it wasn’t that surprising. He got random compliments publicly about his car. The most annoying were the car enthusiasts who insisted on taking a gander at the engine or started the conversation with a proposed price to buy it. At bars and clubs, most attention came from people about his clothes and his figure and whether or not he was a good lay. 

This attention was different. He hadn’t looked at Crowley as someone he wanted to fuck, though the idea might still be there. He hadn’t seemed to look with envy or jealousy or whatever other reason someone might stare at another person.

He had stared at Crowley like he’d stared at the books he brought and cradled in his big hands: utterly captivated and intrigued.

This, whatever this _ was_, was new and unexpected. He had considered it as he sat at his usual table in the café, thumb scrolling the news feed on his phone but not reading the headlines as they flew by. He had considered it a lot when he had sat there after coming to that dawning realization of what he had felt when that gaze fell upon him.

So, Crowley had started to stare at the other man too. He couldn’t ever really get a good look at him after he sat at his table but Crowley would sometimes risk a glance over his shoulder. Thankfully whenever he had the man had appeared absorbed in his book and never noticed. 

But he had felt brave that day. Sitting in the opposite chair, he would have a full view of that side of the café and the other man. The man had been obviously nervous at the change and had kept mostly to himself. It hadn’t deterred him though. Crowley could now see how his eyes danced over to him every now and again.

At one point when Crowley had glanced up, he had seen the man hurrying to pack up his things, forgetting his wallet on the table. If it had been any other person, Crowley would have ignored the wallet, and gone about his business without a hint of regret. But it was _ the man’s _wallet and the thought of someone stealing it made his chest feel tight with anger. Hastily grabbing his bag and snatching the wallet from the table, Crowley had rushed over to stop the man who had been reaching for the doorknob.

When they had both noticed the downpour, Crowley had lamented the state of his hair at the sight more than his blazer getting ruined and soaked. He had genuinely been shocked at the man’s sudden offer of walking with him with his umbrella. Crowley wasn’t the type people simply offered things like umbrellas to in a downpour. Yet, the other man—Ezra, he knew now—hadn’t seemed to care.

What had really shocked Crowley more than the offer itself was the man’s insistence. Based on appearance, Ezra looked like someone you could easily manipulate and make gullible. He didn’t look like he had a single hard bone in his body.

The intensity of the look he had given Crowley, accompanied with, “My dear, will you stop arguing and take the umbrella,” quickly changed Crowley’s perception of the soft bookworm pining at the window table. Oh, this man was a right bastard, and he knew it as evidenced by the smirk he had tried to hide when Crowley had relented.

To say the sudden emotion that had collided into Crowley nearly pushed him off his feet was an understatement. The umbrella he had gripped tightly in his hand barely grounded him in the moment. He thanked Someone for the invention of sunglasses to hide the open look in his eyes he had likely sported.

Having made his way near the front of the shop, caught in his daydream, he was near the door when it opened, jolting him back to the present.

A woman walked in, eyes widening as she took in the plants and flowers. Pride swelled in his chest at the sight. He loved seeing the amazed reaction of customers seeing the fruits of his labor, both literally and metaphorically. She dressed peculiarly in a long skirt, a fitted blouse, a dark green plaid overcoat, and heeled leather boots. She was around university age, early 20s. If she was going for a witchy aesthetic she met her mark in the clothing department.

Crowley cleared his throat to gain her attention. "Need help?" he asked, setting his mister and can down near the door. 

She startled a bit and broke out of her trance at his voice. A complicated look danced across her features when her eyes met his sunglasses. He liked the brief moment of uneasiness when this happened, it helped to keep his own nerves in check if the other person was somewhat intimidated.

Crowley expected a “Hello” or intentional silence. He hadn’t expected to suddenly be bombarded with information without so much as a second for his brain to register the situation, "You wouldn't happen to have any herbs such as sage, thistle, mandrake, lavender—" Her list went on a bit longer, some of the names going over his head the more they got creative. After her long winded list she took a deep breath and fixed him with a serious look. "I can't find a decent flower shop or apothecary in this entire city who has some vervain in stock."

Crowley blinked a few times before nodding and gesturing for her to follow him to the back counter. He knew off the top of his head he had a couple of the ingredients she was looking for but herbs weren't his expertise. 

"New to the area I take it? I mean… uh, obviously, because of the accent." _ Real smooth, Crowley. _She had an obvious American accent that he would need to get used to.

"I moved here a few months ago. As you can imagine I've about exhausted all of the places in this area looking for at least _ someone _ who doesn't exclusively sell bridal bouquets."

"Eh... Yeah, not my style." He had done a handful of weddings and baby showers when he had first opened. _ That _ had been a total disaster. Late nights arranging bouquets and tending to half a thousand roses while hardly ever sober for a major portion of the time made up a majority of his first few months in business. Now he only ever supplied weddings or other events well in advance and based on appointment. It was also an unspoken rule that he was open to working with those turned away from other shops for a whole host of discriminatory reasons. Best not to get the word out he was actually quite lenient with discounts. To those that needed it of course. Any pompous or wealthy bloke entering his shop looking for a centerpiece for their sparsely decorated penthouse paid in full.

At the counter he set to work grabbing some of the herbs he had hanging from the wall and on a rack that he could remember she had listed. 

They exchanged a bit of small talk as he tied together the bunches. Her name was Anathema—"It's an old family name," she had explained with an irked look, which Crowley related to more than he liked—and she had moved to a village named Tadfield to get away from family. "I'm an occultist by trade. I come from a family of money so I've mostly dedicated all of my work to mapping out ley lines and other occult energies out in the field. Tadfield seemed a great area to start. It has…" And she went on explaining the strange and seemingly supernatural phenomena of the small village.

Crowley did pay attention to her talking. He had picked up some wiccan practices and rites when he was a teen before it really became mainstream. But he had done it more as another slight to his parents—"Satanists are completely different from wiccans, mum."—than because he truly believed in the practice. Bee was always the one more into Satanism.

From what he picked up, she knew her stuff.

"I actually found your shop on accident," she said, a small notebook in hand as she checked off a list of the herbs he was twining together for her. "There's a bookshop in Soho I visit every once and awhile. The proprietor has an amazing selection of occult and books on Wicca...," She laughed a bit, "Had no clue the kind of collection he had. He only allows me to look at them after I promised not to buy any."

Crowley made a noise in his throat that was meant to be a laugh but resembled nothing of the sort. "A bookshop owner who doesn't sell books?"

"Well, he does sell them… sometimes. He's nice at the very least if he doesn’t catch you trying to buy something. Though I wouldn't want to get on his bad side if I can help it." She closed her book and slipped it into a pocket in her skirt. "I stopped by earlier but he was closed. It's 'E.Z. Fell and Co.', have you heard of it?"

"Do I look like I go to bookshops?"

She gave him a once over with an amused expression. "Well, no offense, but you don't look like you own a flower shop either."

Crowley clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. He liked her already. "Good," he answered. He held the bag of herbs out for her. He rattled off an appropriate amount for the herbs and waited patiently as she fumbled with the change. Probably still a bit new to the currency. “If you’re looking for some other equipment, there’s a woman who does seances near here, goes by Madame Tracy. Mind that you specify when asking her for her occult services and not the other one.”

Anathema gave him an odd look at “the other one”. Crowley himself wished he didn’t know what Madame Tracy’s _other services _ were.

"Thanks," she said.

Crowley grimaced but nodded. "If you need something to spruce up your cottage, let me know. But I warn you, if I learn one of my plants died in your care, we will never speak again."

She cast a glance around the multitudes of plants and flowers. "What do you suggest?"

Crowley hummed as he took in her appearance. Then, he stepped out from behind the counter, and wandered a bit. Anathema watched him as he inspected a few larger plants and some smaller flowers before settling on a pot that's occupant had yet to sprout. He plucked it from the table then walked back over with the plant cradled in his hands.

He presented it to her without much fanfare. "_Ipomoea alba… _ Moonflower. Native to the Americas so a little slice of home. It blooms in the evening until dawn." He borrowed a piece of paper from her notebook and wrote down some basic instructions and detailed soil types and schedules for re-potting and watering.

Anathema left the shop with the soft click of the front door shutting closed after thanking him and getting an address for Madame Tracy. Crowley stood at the counter a few moments, hands resting on the sleek top, thinking deeply.

Crowley had never cared for bookshops. Still, he couldn't deny that the image of Ezra seated in some plush armchair in the corner of some old bookshop didn't have a certain appeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bullet hole decals are actually a reference to the book where the Bentley has James Bond bullet hole decals Crowley bought at one point. You can actually see them during the Holy Water exchange, a nice little easter egg!
> 
> Additionally, the Bentley used in the show is actually a 1933 model Bentley rather than a 1926 as described in the book, so I made a little nod to Crowley wanting a 1926 but settling for a 1933 instead.


	4. IV. Foreseen Events

Sunlight filtering in through his window roused Ezra from deep sleep. His eyes blinked open slowly as he squinted at his bleary surroundings. Light coming through his blinds nearly blinded him as he struggled to sit up. It made him groan deeply at the pounding in his head.

Well… he was hungover.

He eased himself slowly into a sitting position with eyes screwed shut against the light. Only after a few deep breaths did he manage to squint his eyes open to ease the nausea roiling in his stomach. Once he got his eyes open and didn’t feel on the verge of vomiting, he looked about the room.

Ezra was seated on the well-loved sofa in his backroom. Evidently he had fallen asleep for a considerable amount of time based on the deep indentation from his sleeping body in the cushions. Two empty bottles of wine sat on the little side table next to him along with a dirty wine glass. A book rested beside it along with his reading glasses and a pen.

He rubbed his face to try and wipe away the drowsiness still clinging to him. It seemed he had drank more wine than he likely should have and passed out on the couch. Vaguely he remembered working on his finances and then getting too distracted to focus. The resulting decision led to splurging on that bottle from 1919 and an additional cheaper one as well. He remembered feeling warm and fuzzy seated on the sofa and listening to music coming from the record player.

Idly he scratched the growing stubble along his jaw. He grimaced at the prickly feeling and decided to try to make it to his washroom upstairs. He still wore yesterday's clothes and that fact alone made him itch to shower and change.

Getting up and actually upstairs proved a lengthy process. He used the walls and bookshelves for leverage since his limbs were still a bit uncooperative. Once he made it up to his flat, the pounding in his skull had returned with a vengeance along with the nausea. 

Once in the washroom Ezra stripped out of his clothes and turned the faucet to start filling the bathtub with water. He didn't trust his legs to keep himself upright for a shower, so a bath seemed the safer option. As the tub filled he rinsed out his mouth to remove the awful taste the wine and morning breath had left on his teeth. He also took some aspirin, chasing down the pill with some tap water. Once the tub filled he eased himself in and sighed. Hot water always felt extraordinary in the morning.

Ezra lounged for a bit and washed off the previous day's grime as well as his hair. When the water turned tepid he drained the tub, dried himself with a towel, and wrapped himself up in a robe. He set straight to work shaving his face, wrinkling his nose a bit at the smell of the aftershave. He didn't bother combing his hair and wandered out into his small bedroom.

On any given day, as was now his routine, he would immediately change and head over to the café. He began to do just that when he stopped to look over at his nightstand. The digital numbers of his alarm clock notified him that it was indeed already past noon.

"Dear lord, really?" Ezra sighed. It was one thing that he had gotten truly drunk the night previously but to also sleep in so late? He couldn't recall the last time he had gotten so plastered by himself on a Wednesday night.

As he went to work rifling through his wardrobe for a decent outfit, the memory of his encounter with Crowley came flooding back into his subconscious.

They had _talked. _Of course it had been the briefest and most mundane of conversations but they had actually conversed. Crowley knew Ezra's name now and Ezra knew Crowley's and the feel of his hand in his palm. They had made eye contact— well, lens-to-eye contact but that was a mere technicality.

Giddiness bubbled up in Ezra's chest. He had actually talked to the intriguing man and learned his name. What a strange turn of events.

But the giddiness soon died in his throat as he thought a bit harder over it. Crowley knew him, could put a name to a face. He knew Ezra was in the café around the same time as him and he knew the table at which Ezra normally sat.

Now that was a bit of a problem.

He pulled out a soft blue button-up and beige trousers from his wardrobe before plucking a jumper from his closet. He changed quickly, mind racing now over this new dilemma.

Now what? There was the clear possibility that they never speak again and ignore the one-time interaction and go about their mornings as usual. But he also had to consider that Crowley had his umbrella and would need to return it. This meant Crowley talking to him again. Not only that, Ezra could faintly recall points in their brief conversation where the man seemed close to saying something but instead kept his mouth shut.

The mystery and intrigue of the well-dressed man in that little Soho café was already unraveling between his fingers. Yet, Ezra didn't seem to mind.

In truth, the little pieces he had learned yesterday only intrigued him more. Not about the concept of the dark stranger, but the man who had introduced himself as Crowley. 

Crowley, who wore sunglasses indoors, walked unusually, and had a nervous air to him despite his smooth appearance. Crowley, who had a slight lilt in his accent he couldn’t place and unseen eyes. Crowley, with deep russet hair disheveled from a hand running nervously through it too many times. Crowley, who sat in a Soho café every weekday with a drink while scrolling through his phone seemingly waiting for company that would never show.

It was no use going to the café today by this point. Ezra had no clue how long Crowley stayed there but the man was likely gone by this hour. So, he toed on a pair of shoes and grabbed his coat and essentials before heading out to grab lunch. Thankfully he had half a mind to lock the shop door last night and did so again once he stepped out onto the busy street. He had already made up his mind to visit the sushi place a few blocks down and eat away the last lingering effects of his hangover.

After lunch he returned back to the shop and flipped the sign on his front door to “Open” and left the door unlocked. He seated himself at the antique register and went over his ledger as a few hopeful customers trickled in from the streets into his shop.

He kept a hawk-like gaze on them as they perused the bookcases. He eyed students the most. His stare would follow them as they strolled through and between the bookcases and stacks. Students often meant backpacks and backpacks could easily collide with a pile of biographies or one of the antiques littering the shop. The older woman by the sewing books he paid little mind to, the 19 year old currently running their fingers along a shelf of crime serials he kept his ever watchful gaze on.

He kept a firm watch over his books. One could almost describe him as an overprotective parent. He knew the love Mr. Williams had of his family's collection, the care and long hours and money spent to keep the old volumes in top condition. Ezra had shared the same love and this love and attention owed more to their close relationship than their shared sexuality, though that was certainly an added factor. 

The chime of the bell at his door drew his gaze away from watching the student who was flipping through one of the serials with an interested expression.

A familiar long skirt swished in the doorway and Ezra's demeanor immediately relaxed. "Anathema, hello dear."

The owner of the aforementioned billowing skirt, Anathema Device, smiled warmly as she saw him at the register. Her dark hair spilled down her shoulders over a dark blouse. Two crystals dangled from her ears and burned orange in the sunlight from the oculus above. "Mr. Fell, hey! Glad I caught you. I passed by earlier but you were closed."

Ezra's warm smile faltered a bit. "My apologies, I had a bit of a rough morning." He wiggled a bit in his seat to fix his posture. "Looking for anything in particular this time, my dear? I'm sure you know where the occult section is by now."

Anathema laughed. "I think I can find it this time," she said, making a quick sweep of the cluttered shop with her eyes. "You might have to dig me out though. I have some research to take care of for the upcoming equinox."

Anathema had wandered into his shop only a few months prior. She had just moved from America into a small village outside in Oxfordshire called Tadfield. At their first meeting Anathema had told him she came for a change of scenery but upon realizing he wasn't the judging sort had confessed later on it was because the area was teeming with occult energies and forces and something about ley lines. Tadfield was, understandably, woefully ill-equipped with occult shops and items so she had to travel into the city in search of equipment to supplement the meager amount she could get through international customs. It turned out a 23 year old American woman trying to bring a theodolite through British customs could cause a bit of scene.

She was fascinated by the selection of occult and conspiracy books his shop provided and, after promising not to purchase any of them, Ezra allowed her to come whenever she pleased to study and research. The selection was small and rather unremarkable compared to the more popular genres in the shop but Anathema had assured him the occult books he had were excellent. 

She came around about every week or so when she carpooled with her boyfriend, a nervous lad named Newt, whom Ezra had only met once before. The man seemed the clumsy sort and easy to knock something over so Ezra had been on edge when the man stood in his shop waiting for Anathema. His car was an old, three-wheeled Japanese brand car Ezra had never heard of. The poor thing was close to falling apart really, making the journey from Tadfield and back tedious, hence the time between their trips to London. Normally, and thankfully, Newt usually ran errands or checked in on an old acquaintance as Anathema went about her own errands. The one time Ezra had deemed to ask about this “acquaintance”, she’d rolled her eyes and grumbled under her breath about close-minded old men, not offering much else in the way of explanation.

Ezra liked her, even despite her peculiar hobby. At least she didn’t try to buy anything.

"Yes, of course. Give me a holler if you need anything, I'll be here. And," he leaned in a bit closer now, lowering his voice as he nodded his chin over to the university student, "do keep an eye on that young person over there for me, if you don't mind. I half expect them to start swinging their bag around." 

She nodded. "Will do." She turned to head over then stopped and turned back. "Oh, could you watch over this for me? I don't want to set it down somewhere and lose it. If the guy I bought them from found out I lost them he won't allow me back in his nursery." She opened the canvas bag a bit to reveal bundles of herbs and little jars stashed inside. The jars had a little logo embossed in the glass on the front that read From Eden. Amongst the bag was a small, sleek black pot surrounded by protective tissue paper that had a tag tucked in the soil for the plant that had yet to grow. According to the tag, it was a moonflower.

The flower shop name didn't ring any bells. The few plants he had stationed around the shop had come from some local plant nurseries and markets but he didn't recall ever seeing one named From Eden in the immediate area. 

"Of course, I'll take them to the back for you," he agreed, taking the bag with care.

Since he trusted Anathema to keep a watch on the student, Ezra took a moment to slip into the backroom. The room was just as cluttered as the main floor of the shop, if not more so. The entire room was littered with trinkets, mementos, statues, novelties, and other such objects to fill every available space. The majority was, naturally, books of all genres, shapes, and sizes. Some of the items he had brought with him to London, including an angel wing mug which had been a Christmas gag gift from his uni friends; a well-loved and well-read Bible; personal copies of his favorite books, a considerable amount being Wilde’s work; and an antique gramophone he had found at an antique store along with a few records that rested on a table near the sofa. All the rest were left over heirlooms collected by the Williams family over the span of the last two centuries. A particular descendant went through a phase of collecting an extraordinary amount of angelic and biblical artworks and items. Ezra’s personal favorite was a hand-sized replica of Bernini’s _Angel with the Superscription _ he used as a paperweight.

Books, bindery equipment, gloves, pens, unopened mail, receipts, journals, and other miscellaneous items covered the large desk set up near the window. Ezra gathered up some of the items into a small pile to create space to set down his catalog and Anathema's bag. His fingertips skimmed along the spines of the books propped up on his desk before plucking the one he needed.

While Ezra admired and took great pride in the number of rare and antique books and editions he owned, he held a fondness for his own personal collection. Rather than scour the internet and book auctions throughout the world for rare and unheard of editions and misprints of works by famous and acclaimed authors, Ezra instead acquired books of a more niche variety.

This niche variety happened to be misprinted bibles and books of prophecy. However, the current book of prophecies he held in his hand was a cheap, 10 pence copy of prophecies by a Mrs. Agnes Nutter, likely a pseudonym, which anyone could purchase at a convenience store. The contents of its predictions were arranged by horoscope, whether by horoscope of the reader or the date of when such a prediction would occur, Ezra had yet to determine. It wasn't the most priceless of prophetic books but Ezra enjoyed skimming its contents every once and a while because of the rather mundane nature of its predictions.

Closing his eyes, Ezra opened the book to a random section. He gazed down upon the page he had opened with interest. "Ah, Libra, a good start…" he murmured.

Finger roaming down the list, he selected a random passage to read: "'_A houseplant may lighten up your office or household on a rainy day…'” _

His gaze drifted over to Anathema's bag with the little jars from the so-called Eden inside. He quickly closed the book and placed it back with the others. He had hoped a rather trite and vague prediction might lighten his mood. Now he felt a strange inkling in the back of his mind that he couldn't tell whether it made him uneasy or not.

There were thousands of little prophecies and horoscopes floating about one could acquire at one's convenience. Most were written in an attempt to be relatable to the largest swath of the population possible. Ezra knew this as he knew many of the little predictions in that 10 pence book were likely utter nonsense and had no influence on _ him_. But the fact that, even by chance, he had opened to Libra and decided to read that particular prediction…

The chime of the bell at the front door carried faintly to the backroom. Ezra grabbed a random novel off the top of one of the stacks in the room and made his way back out to the register to inspect the new hopeful that had walked in.

By the time he closed shop at 7 he had sold one book, a little crochet sewing patterns manual from the 1950s bought by the old woman. She happened to be an expert haggler despite her frail appearance and possessed a wicked skill of using her great grandchildren as emotional leverage. The prediction in that little horoscope book had rattled Ezra enough he felt less engaged in trying to argue over the price or purchase with an old woman. He preferred embroidery to crocheting anyway.

Anathema had left hours ago. Ezra had lent her a cardboard box to carry her bag more soundly in and she seemed rather pleased with what research she had found. Poor Newt's car had made a horrible noise when they had pulled away from the curb outside the shop.

The daylight hours began to shorten around this time. The street steadily plunged into darkness save for the streetlights that flickered on and the illumination of headlights and shop windows. The Soho nightlife bustled outside along the sidewalk. Ezra turned off the lights in the main shop area and pulled his blinds and curtains closed. The shop settled into a blessed silence, the sound of the outside world faint and muffled.

Moving into the backroom, he switched on a few lamps. He cleared away the empty wine bottles and glass left on his table from the previous night to be taken up later and washed. When he switched on the radio, most of the radio stations were synced to relaying obnoxious commercials so he decided to forego music for a bit. 

Finally, Ezra sank down into his armchair, releasing a deep sigh as he did so. He sat there for a few moments in sheer comfort. He listened to the background noise of his clock ticking and his own breathing. His favorite part of the workday was the wind down, the moment he could finally enjoy his own company and the company of his books. In this moment it all seemed worth it in the end, that he had done enough, and was content with his lot in life.

A stillness lingered there, however. It never really left after the shop door closed and all that remained was the lone bookshop owner seated among his trove of stories and adventures.

For a moment, Ezra thought of Mr. Williams. He had had a home not far from the bookshop, a cozy place Ezra visited on multiple occasions. He thought of before he had come to London though, before Mr. Williams' partner had passed. He could picture the two leaving the shop after closing. They would have locked up the front door then set off on a stroll down the street to their home. Perhaps on rare, quiet nights when the streets had emptied, they had held hands.

In some way, Crowley had been right. The armchair in the corner of the bookshop Ezra sat in was plush and comfortable and the scene was, from an outside view, appealing. 

Yet, what was not appealing was the loneliness of sitting alone.


End file.
